Potosi Mines
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Potosi Mines
Potosí. Here, within the bowels of Cerro Rico, everything was decided. An experience as rich in human connection as it was in challenges. From this journey, a project was born: the miners of Potosí. I set myself the goal of sharing my encounter with these men. To see this project through, which turned into an adventure, I plunged into the heart of the inferno of Cerro Rico, pushing myself to my very limits. Awards, exhibitions, interviews followed, as well as an incurable need to embrace the world.
Extreme working conditions
In my oversized boots, I make my way toward the mine's entrance. Before the dark opening, we wait as the carts, pushed by the strength of men, are swallowed by the shadows. One, two, three, four, and five wagons follow each other in succession.
Level 1
At 4,172 meters above sea level, in front of one of the shacks, and despite a damp wind, the sun beats down hard. Mr. Tacuri had recommended me to one of his best men: Virgilio Ayarachi. Virgilio has been working in the mines for twenty-one years. He is 37 years old but looks over 50. The miner chews coca leaves. His cheeks, stuffed to bursting, resemble those of a squirrel preparing for winter. Virgilio bends down, rests his right hand on his knee, clears his throat, sniffs three times, and spits on the ground. He covers the liquid with his foot, resumes his walk, and stuffs another handful of leaves into his mouth. He offers me some. I display my own bag, packed to the brim.
Level 2
Inside the mine, the rubbery ground sticks to my boots. With each step, the suction holds them back. I have to spread my toes wide to keep from losing them..
The beam of my lamp barely pierces the darkness. Bent over, I move forward, feeling my way. Afraid of stumbling over a stone or tripping on the rails, I shuffle my feet rather than lift them. A few light bulbs, broken or missing, hang from the ends of wires.
Deep at the very bottom
Up ahead, light shifts.
A beam lights up the ground, the wall, and the ground again, then vanishes. A golden glow, too beautiful to be real, slips away from where I caught sight of it. A misshapen silhouette emerges against the light, a vision that sends a chill down my spine. Virgilio moves toward it.
In the beam of his lamp, a nose, a mouth, eyes—a face—emerges from the darkness. He introduces me to Cristobal, who immediately explains his work to me. Thus, to prospect, he is armed with a steel rod, a hammer, and a lot of courage. With powerful blows of the hammer, Cristobal drives the steel rod into the rock to dislodge heavy blocks of ore.
Each block weighs between seven and fifteen kilos. He will fill an entire cart with them. I offer him my bag of coca leaves.
